


Proverbs 13:24 (King James)

by Taz



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Caning, Crossdressing, Discipline, Kink, M/M, Restraints, Slash, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I reapplied my eye to the peep-hole, observed the buttocks, and a black corset trimmed with red, where the previous one had been white. As I watched the woman's arm rise and fall, I knew this was my fault. Discipline was the specialty of the house, but care must be taken, and some of the girls had been in danger of developing muscular arms. I had recommended a change to the Burmese cane, a species of cane that is light, flexible and whippy, yet still capable of delivering a penetrating sting, even when applied through heavy twill trousers. I have heard many a military man say it brings back the moment they first perceived the value of submitting themselves to discipline.</p><p>“My business will be ruined," Millie cried. "What am I to do? Do you see?”</p><p>Yes. I saw. And I had heard. The man crying so pitifully for relief in that room was Sherlock Holmes! I could hardly walk in there and reveal myself to him, while he was so vulnerable, and yet it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that my poor friend was in need of a stronger hand and firmer guidance than any female could supply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proverbs 13:24 (King James)

In autumn of the year 1881, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I had been settled into our rooms at Baker Street for some eight months. I would say that in the main I was well satisfied with the arrangement. Between the location and moderate expense, and our landlady’s excellent cooking, I felt fully justified in congratulating myself that I had both improved the quality of my existence, and contrived to remain in the city. The only fly in the balm of my content was my roommate, himself. Not that Holmes was a difficult man to live with; he was an impossible man to live with! Stamford had not exaggerated his eccentricities. Yet, his enthusiasms—the constant clutter of philosophic instruments—his peculiar comings and goings—could not but stimulate a curiosity which, in my weakened state, provided an agreeable distraction from chronic pain, and lingering depression.

And, as time went by, curiosity was not all that was aroused, and I found myself pondering his oddly attractive personal attributes in a way that could have stressed our budding friendship to the breaking point. I interpreted this mounting awareness as a positive sign of returning health, and took steps to ameliorate the situation by consulting Stamford.

On Stamford’s recommendation, I took to visiting a certain dancing academy and, as it turned, out the headmistress had a brother in the army. This naturally gave her a patriotic, as well as professional, interest in returning soldiers, and we spoke frequently of the hardships and deprivations attached to foreign service and, when she discovered I was a doctor as well as a veteran, she proposed an arrangement, a mutually beneficial exchange of services, so to speak. This was fortuitous because otherwise I would have been unable to resort to such relief, as often as I might have liked.

The first time that I, rather than Holmes, was the object of an urgent knock on the door in the middle of the night, he raised an eyebrow, but a gentleman, of course, does not inquire. Nonetheless, I informed him that I was easing my path into civilian practice by occasionally assisting Stamford.

After that, he appeared wholly disinterested in my affairs. I only wished I could have achieved the same level of detachment.

It was November 19th. I had spent the evening alone, Holmes having gone out early in the uniform of a Salvation Army Sergeant. I waited up for him as long as I could. At 1 a.m. I was ready to retire, but delayed to give myself the pleasure of one last pipe. It was then that I received a note from Millie, the headmistress at the academy where I had that friendly agreement. It read _‘Urgent you come at once!’_ I ran out and, at that hour, was lucky in procuring a hackney at the stand at the corner.

It was a relief, upon my arrival, to see there were no signs of blood, or violence. Nor to hear police whistles, screams, stampeding feet, or sobs. The house was peaceful which, in itself, was strange. Even at that late hour, even on Sunday nights, there was always a jolly bunch of treacle tarts awaiting customers in the parlor. They whiled away the time playing cards, or singing to the banjo and piano. I had joined them, myself, on more than one occasion.

Millie, when I had been admitted to her office, was clearly in a state of profound distraction. “Whatever is the matter?” I cried. “Your note said it was urgent.”

“It’s horrible. He will ruin me.” She kept moaning, pacing back and forth, until I took her by the shoulders, and stopped her where she stood. I will never forget how vivid the rouge on her cheeks appeared against the pallor of her skin, as she said, “He is going to have all of my best girls laid up, and out of service for days.”

“Never tell me it is merely a case of gonorrhea!”

“If only it were! The clap can be cured. Or the pox. But this is worse than pox. The man is a menace to every working girl in London!”

“Dear God!” I said, envisioning a priapic monster of gigantic proportions. I detected a slight swelling of the _membrum virile_ at the thought for, without immense will power, that sort of thing is uncontrollable. I was still in a weakened state and flesh aspires, like to like.

“Do you recall when you treated several of my girls last month?” said Millie.

“Oh!” I blushed. “Yes!” Not a month before, a number of her girls had seriously overworked themselves. I had treated with massage and warm oil, and advised certain practical adjustments. “Did you make the changes that I recommended?”

“Yes,” Millie said. “But… Damn the man! Come with me, it will be easier if I show you,” she said, leading me into another room, which gave access to a back staircase.

I followed her up several flights.

We tiptoed down a hall and slipped quietly into a room, whose door swung so quietly on its hinges, I knew they were kept well-oiled. The gaslight was lit, but turned down low. Mollie made no attempt to adjust it, and I had never been in the room, so that it took a little to make out the fittings. When I did, I saw that it had been dressed out luxuriously as a boudoir, _a la_ Boucher with satin lounge, painted screen, gilt dressing table, and an elegant rogering stool upholstered in green satin. This was a chamber reserved for the most discriminating patrons.

Putting her finger to her lips, Millie led me to the wall that separated us from the room next door. There, at eye level, cunningly hidden in the design of the padded toile fabric with which the walls were finished, was a peep hole with an enameled cover. Putting the cover aside, she looked through. I heard the hiss of her indrawn breath. She said an indelicate word.

“What is it?”

“See for yourself,” she whispered, and stepped away so that I might apply my eye.

I could not determine, at first, what I was supposed to be seeing until the toffer, the back of whose corset I was staring at, moved out of the way. I perceived a man’s upended buttocks. They were firmly muscled and red in color. It was not a natural red, such as the deep and dusky burgundy of the tightly, swollen sac that I could see between the man’s thighs, but an intense, bright, hot looking red. As I watched, the toffer began exercising those buttocks with a pale yellow cane. I imagined how it would feel putting my hand on that burnished flesh, and this time felt a dizzying rush of blood that swelled my prick. She had obviously been working on him for some time, and had fair technique with the light cane. I could hear the whirr and slap of the thing, as Millie had opened a vent by the floor. But when she stopped, the white stripes turned flared red immediately, and a harsh voice groaned, “Harder! Damn you! I told you harder!” Speechless with shock, I let go of the peep-hole cover. It was spring-loaded, and snapped into place and might have betrayed us, but for the sound absorbing qualities of that well-fitted room. “What?!”

Millie quickly closed the vent by the floor, but she kept she kept her voice soft. “It has only been two hours, but it will go on for hours. He does not spend! He complains that the girls do not apply themselves with the needed severity. I make them take turns, but most of them have claimed to have headaches, and the rest will be useless tomorrow.” To prove her words, there were footsteps running down the hall. Raised voices argued. The door of the next room slammed.

I reapplied my eye to the peep-hole, observed the buttocks, and a black corset trimmed with red, where the previous one had been white. As I watched the woman's arm rise and fall, I knew this was my fault. Discipline was the specialty of the house, but care must be taken, and some of the girls had been in danger of developing muscular arms. I had recommended a change to the Burmese cane, a species of cane that is light, flexible and whippy, yet still capable of delivering a penetrating sting, even when applied through heavy twill trousers. I have heard many a military man say it brings back the moment they first perceived the value of submitting themselves to discipline.

“My business will be ruined," Millie cried. "What am I to do? Do you see?”

Yes. I saw. And I had heard. The man crying so pitifully for relief in that room was Sherlock Holmes! I could hardly walk in there and reveal myself to him, while he was so vulnerable, and yet it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that my poor friend was in need of a stronger hand and firmer guidance than any female could supply.

Desperately, I looked around for inspiration. My eyes having adjusted to the dim light, I made out a heap of lacy feminine under garments draped over the dressing screen, and recalled how successfully, I had played Rosalind in our school’s production of _As You Like It_.

“Millie!” I cried. “Is he well restrained?”

“Of course.”

“Did you retain the old rattan canes?”

“On the chance they would might be needed some day,” said she.

“Then is it possible that you could kit me out as one of the girls?”

Not the least of the reasons that I had found this particular academy so congenial was the quickness and perception of its headmistress.

I had stripped and pulled on stockings, a pair of split-crotched drawers, and a chemise, by the time Millie was back with the heavy canes. She helped me lace the corset tight and, while I won’t say you could have spanned my waist with two hands, we achieved a creditable result. It certainly supported the breathy fluting tones I would need to adopt, if my deception were to be successful.

Fortunately, I have a small foot for a man and although, a shave might have helped, my whiskers are light. In the soft light, a blonde wig, a touch of rouge on lip and cheek, and the thing was done.

Millie stood back looked me over critically. “Doctor,” she said, as she put the rod in my hand, “Should you ever need to pick up expenses on the side, I would consider making adjustments to our arrangement.” I giggled. I confess, I giggled. There is something in the feel of lace that makes one giddy, as she checked to make sure the hall was clear of customers, I snabbled the pot of Vaseline from the dressing table.

When we opened the door, you could see the poor girl, who had been left to deal with Holmes was all in. “Come along Rosy, Mistress Johanna is here to relieve us all,” Millie said, and she fled gratefully with her employer.

As the door closed behind me, I found myself alone with Holmes. I was behind him and could not speak, at first. I needed to get myself under control.

So enchanting was that view of him ass-up over the whipping bench, arms and legs spread, cuffed and belted at the ankles, waist and wrists, head held by a check rein attached to a collar, that my prick thrust its neck through the slit in my drawers, reaching blindly. I followed where it directed and put my hand on the bright burning flesh. Holmes hissed. “Mistress Johanna,” he began, “your hands are cold. And so soft; I’m guessing you don’t have much practice, so why should I trust you to have a stronger arm than any of the other whores in this—”

It was a critical moment. I found my voice. “Did I give you permission to speak?” I said, keeping it pitched high, but firm in tone.

“I’m not paying—!” he started.

Right smart, I smacked that ruby red ass. “Did I give you permission to speak?”

“What are you—”

I smacked him again, and repeated, “I said did I give you permission to speak?” I waited, warming my hand as I waited by cupping the nubbly sac, tugging on the rock hard shaft, and rolling my thumb around the bit of curled muscle that locked his rump. Eventually, he snarled something like No. I gave him another whack. “A bit more gracious, if you please. No sulking.”

“No,” he said.

“Good. You’re learning.” I soothing that triple imprinted buttock. “From this point on you will not speak until I say that you may.” I said, “Do you understand me?” I had enjoyed clapping my hand against his heated flesh, and there was a chance he might fall for that schoolmaster’s trick. I was a trifle disappointed when he merely nodded. Still, his silence meant that I was in control; that was the important thing.

“You have been a nasty, stubborn little boy,” I said, “and you are going to be punished.” I let my thumb tease his rump, until he emitted a strangled sound. Then I leaned over and held the cane in front of his face. “This is the instrument of your chastisement,” I said. “Kiss it.”

I felt him stiffen when he saw the thickness of the cane. I knew that was an even more critical moment. “Kiss the rod,” I promised, “and you will find salvation.”

He kissed it and, as would have been too cruel to make him wait any longer, I proceeded to give him ten of the best that my arm knew how to deliver. I nearly spent everything in my own purse as I did, but I controlled myself. To teach discipline, one must exercise discipline, and a rattan cane is a severe tool. It must be wielded with the utmost skill.

There is a fine art to delivering whacks with the maximum amount of noise, and minimum of damage, to a well-fleshed rear, while persuading the subject that you hold his soul in your hand. Holmes managed to contain himself until the third whack, when he cried out. He cried out again at the fourth and fifth, but groaned with the sixth and seventh and I could tell that he was beginning to experience the full glory of submitting to another’s complete mastery. With the eighth and ninth, I observed wet drops on the floor. With the tenth he unburdened himself entirely.

Then he hung limply over the whipping frame, while the muscles of his asshole pulsed.

It had been some time since I had properly caned a man. I was dripping from the effort and panting harshly. After weeks of longing and fantasy, it was all I could do not to plunder his body. I was so painfully hard. But one does not take advantage.

“You have permission to speak,” I said.

“Thank you, Mistress Johanna” he gasped, evidence, if there ever was, that a good hard whipping improves a boy’s manners no end. “My head… Please.” Unthinking, I knelt to undo the check rein on his collar, and the head of my prick thrust in his face. “Mistress Johanna?” He stared at it, and then he looked up straight into my eyes. “Watson!”

“Yes,” said I. There is, as I said, something about lace that makes one giddy. I took him by the chin, and gave it a pinch. “You have been a very naughty and selfish boy.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am. And I will be again. As you may have noticed, I am utterly selfish, and on occasion, exceptionally naughty.” His eyes were dark and shining. His lips were parted. He licked them. “When I am, will you make me kiss your rod, and beat very me hard? As you just did?”

“You are undisciplined, an ill-trained brat,” said I. “But I would be happy to benefit you that far.”

“Extremely ill-trained,” he agreed. “In fact, I feel that I would benefit from additional instruction, now.” He looked hungrily at my prick. “I could kiss that, and perhaps suck on it, for practice. Don’t you think? They say strike while the iron is hot.”

Strike while the bum is hot, I thought, and undid the check rein.

This allowed him to stretch his neck and reach the knob of my prick. I permitted him to suck for a brief time, but it would have set a dangerous precedent to ever let Sherlock Holmes set the pace. When Holmes’ eyes were closed, and I was certain that he was enjoying himself, I pulled my prick from his mouth.

He began to whine, of course, as I expected he would, but I explained this was to be a lesson in another sort of discipline. Did you think I had forgotten the jar of Vaseline that I snagged from the dressing table? Hardly. I am informed that the product was developed from the residue that collected on oil pumps, where it was called rod wax. There never has been a material more aptly named. I opened the jar and proceeded to grease his hole and my shaft well, and then I put that glorious bottom of his to the use for which Nature had so evidently intended it. He squawked a bit with the sting of entry, but my skill with the short rod is every bit as consummate as my skill with the rattan cane. I quickly made him forget a moment of trifling discomfort.

As for me, that first instance of being fully enclosed in Holmes’ tight sheath was far too brief. I spent myself too quickly. I was too stimulated for too long, given all that happened that night, and all those months of longing before… still it was enough. It gave him an appreciation of the value of firm discipline, and for the next three months he was truly impossible to live with.  

 

Finis  
30 January 2013- 12:15 a.m.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written for the come_at_once comm on LJ the, as of this moment, ongoing 24 hour porn challenge for all Sherlock Holmes fandoms. I took the prompt 'under cover' as a metaphor for the disguises both Holmes and Watson assume in the course of the story. The title - Proverbs 13: 24 - "He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes."


End file.
